


and hunting left behind

by Etnoe



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, First Time, Sneaking Around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etnoe/pseuds/Etnoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eugenides shows Attolia the secret passages he used to move around her castle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and hunting left behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toficornottofic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toficornottofic/gifts).



_This is where, and how, he hunted me._

"Who else knows these passages?" Attolia asked sharply. Rather too much so, as her voice struck an echo off the unadorned stone walls of the narrow passageway, and her hunter, her husband, winced expressively in the light of his little lantern.

"None who shared the knowledge with me or in my hearing," he answered, turning around now that his face had got the point across that it was best to be quiet. "Or who wrote it down in any manuscript that ended up in the library of Eddis's stronghold, aside from my grandfather's - I like to read," he said, the last words in a markedly different tone. It was downright conversational.

Immediately Attolia's thoughts ran to granting him sufficient access to reading material, ensuring that his attendants knew which dealers to trust and could lead him to the palace's two libraries. (Would it make him happy?) It would give a signal to the court ... perhaps it would signal too much consideration and closeness at this point to be useful, making things worse rather than better.

Should she at least ask what he like to read, even if the purpose was moot at this point in their plan? Attolia decided that she would, and was told in low tones how he had always favoured stories of mythology and history, and - here things began to get as theatrical as the need to stay quiet allowed - how he mistrusted poetry and poets. It was mostly self-mocking, and possibly an attempt to amuse her.

The effect was to make her more willing to walk after him through the palace's secret passages. He _was_ at ease; it was a wonder to see, especially knowing all that he was putting aside in order to appear this blithe.

And now that his mood had finally lightened, she could also see the effect that exercising his skill had on him. Truly he was as accomplished a thief as he would brag of, sneaking along even when the secret passages passed by some disguised thinness in the walls where others were barely the thickness of a plank away, and helping her to do the same.

"There are many uses to this, you know," he said. "If you should wish for a place where you might be alone. There is no great beauty to uplift the environment, but, I thought, your mind is likely to be too busy to require such a thing in any case, if you'd reached the point of taking to this passages."

Attolia hesitated, but decided to speak her honest opinion. It would feel like a poor choice whether she spoke or not, and at least this way she could do something which she rarely had an opportunity for. "It is rarely a wish of mine to be alone. There's no point thinking about it, and so I do not wish it. I gather that you appreciate time to yourself ... for me, it's a consideration that has rather been left behind. Years ago."

"It ... is an adjustment, to experience that now," her king admitted, wan with the responsibility that had clearly come back to him all at once, as it did every so often.

"You and I, together, are the closest we will now get to being alone, except for extraordinary - and usually firmly discouraged - circumstances."

He smiled in the strangest way. _Eugenides_ , she thought, trying the word to herself. She had called him by name on her wedding night, until the fight had started, and since then had struggled to find anything to call him. _Eugenides, a young man, pleased, despite everything._

"You will trust me as much as you trust yourself? Expect me to trust you as much as I trust me?"

"I am here, Eugenides. Dusty in a haunt no one knows of but you." Attolia shrugged. If she didn't have trust, she'd shown it all the same by accompanying him.

Then, on second thoughts, she shrugged off the shawl that she had placed around her very plain dress, worn specially for this outing through the inner works of her palace. It was not so very dusty, so she dropped it to the floor.

He reached a hand to her - the one with the hook, which swiftly was shoved behind his back. "I," he said, "might very, very well be getting the wrong idea from this."

She kicked off the soft-soled slippers she wore. "If you would call me Irene," she said.

He self-consciously wriggled out of his own long wool coat. When he brought his arms back to his side, she realised that he had managed to get it and his prosthetic off at the same time.

"Let me help with that," he said, as her gaze could not quite stop flickering back to his arm with its old wound and abrupt end. Eugenides came to her, added "Irene" on a breath, and unpinned her hair as she finished undoing buttons on her dress. It was a fairly lengthy task as he had fairly lengthy hair and had wanted to keep it well out of the way for this venture, and it allowed her to undo some of his buttons. There weren't too many, of course, in instructed consideration for the fact of his single hand. Glimpses of revealed skin and vulnerability. It was fitting enough that this all became strangely comfortable.

 _So this is the first time for us,_ she thought. It had been a matter of concern for her once the wedding night had gone as it had, but near impossible to broach in conversation.

She found him happy enough. On this point, she was hard to please: she waited for him to flinch; go blank; shove her away; panic and run. But Eugenides was happy and wished to please both her and himself. That was a smile on his face as he kissed far enough down her neck and chest for her to see his mouth; it broadened when it hit the patch of skin where she dabbed her perfume, and he pressed a light kiss to where the scent was strongest.

How did he find her? Eagerly. The stump arm, however, did not touch her, despite all the delighted urgency that drove Eugenides otherwise. The other hand ranged freely through her hair, touching and holding and squeezing over her waist, back and stomach even with the dress in the way, weighting and stroking her breasts. Moving his hand under her clothing put an end to the other touches and increased the eagerness hundredfold, his gaze meeting hers as he ran his hand up and down her thighs, pushing aside her smallclothes. With great care - that did, indeed, seem to come from care, rather than fear - he ran his fingers over her curls.

His eyes were wide, boyish in that way she could rarely look past, even as she acknowledged that it was guilt, in part, that made her think so. He had enough years and enough knowledge that he wasn't quite shy in breaching her, knuckling past the plumping seal of her lower lips. The action itself was something that he was prepared for one way or the other - with other women, perhaps, or simply because he had thought of doing this with her enough for imagination to wear away the worst of his fears? But even without shy or awkward moments, his touch to her now was slow; it even grew outright reverent. His fingers curled to open her, to feel the ripples of her flesh and the sweet slide of how, truly, she wanted to have this man.

Irene now had some trouble. She wished to show her own care; she wished to push him down to the floor, cushioned by his coat and small beneath her, small enough to be kept below her in this quiet, dark space that spoke of safety. An insult of a desire, with all his evident skill and strength, with the wiry strength she could see in the play of exposed muscle. An idiotic dream that amounted to going back to a moment where he meant mostly a threat to her and her country - playful, somehow, and yet in every technicality still a threat.

Instead she fit her mouth and teeth to the cords showing in his neck and bit ever so lightly. Eugenides let out a gasp. with one hand, pulled his fingers into place to touch her properly for pleasure, and with the other stroked over his belly with the backs of her fingers, moving slowly closer. Eugenides shuddered and gasped; and his fingertips brushed where she hurt for touch and made sharp sensation flood through her. Her fingers brushed lower, to his hard and buoyant flesh, and he slapped a hand over his mouth so hard it was probably too loud anyway. His eyes closed as she drew him into her.

Then one last thing: Eugenides kissed her.

Perhaps just to shut himself up. He was awful at that. But he put his hands to her face - almost, with one hand delicate on her cheek, and his stump finally rising to touch her, a movement that changed to having it rest on her shoulder. But still he stayed tender even as he thrust inside her, erratic and lovely.

Oh, what did he _want_? It truly seemed that it was exactly what he said. Irene touched him breakably, fingertips down the back of his neck and sliding light on his spine, unable to stop herself under the urging of how it felt to have him inside her. The slide of opening to the pressure of his flesh, the way it reverberated in surges throughout her body when he rolled his hips high, straining up to please her as much as himself ... it was a shock, in and of itself, how it wasn't really shocking to her anymore. He wanted her.

She steadied herself against a wall with one arm to let her knees tremble just a little with the knowledge of it, and found that sinking down that little bit had been an excellent idea. Legs a little more open, her hips working a little lower, and she had to bite her lip hard at the change in angle. It made him give a hastily strangled gasp as he found himself able to sink deeper into her.

"Eugenides," she whispered in response, for the novelty of being able to say it so freely. He kissed her again and again, brought his fingers down to play with the sharp nub of flesh that had never before _quite_ made her want to scream, and now made noise beat inside her chest and leave her praying with eyes squeezed shut that her silence would hold. It ended with his mouth pressed to her shoulder and hers pressed to his hair, closer together all over than they'd ever been.

It was entirely more difficult to move away from each other than it should have been.

When they were done, the clothing was no more messy than it would have been anyway, with this excursion. Still, even if they had some plausible deniability in what they'd been doing back here, it was better not to be caught; and so they took the excuse of needing to remain unobtrusive in order not to talk any more at all.

Irene was at an advantage, because Eugenides had to lead the way and she could watch him for whatever clues to his mood might be visible.

When they were done, the clothing was no more messy than it would have been anyway. Still, even if they had some plausible deniability in what they'd been doing back here, it was better not to be caught; and so they took the excuse to to talk at all. Irene was at an advantage, because Eugenides had to lead the way and she could watch him.

No swagger. He hadn't stolen anything. Now he was shy.

Now they were both happy, she supposed. There was only so much sincerity that even she could doubt. Eugenides, her husband, her hunter; her lover, in both senses of the word, truly. Willing to bare his body to her even now, with all she had done to him.

Thief and liar that he was, she would believe him.


End file.
